


Wool into Thread

by octopus_in_space



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, The man & the monster, don't be fooled by the chapter titles, edgy mcedgelord, the struggle is real, this aims to be depressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:05:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_in_space/pseuds/octopus_in_space
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If his work was wool, then Jack was the spindle that turned it into thread, and he was the foolish shepard that dreamt of being a king."</p><p>(Character exploration of Gabriel Reyes / Reaper.</p><p>Jack Morrison not included, despite the summary.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Struggle is Real (TM)

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I haven't written anything in around a decade and have no idea where this came from, or if it's even legible, haha.
> 
> Apologies for any formatting errors, as I'm new to posting on AO3 and am doing this from my phone. 
> 
> Hope someone enjoys. :)

His entire life has been a struggle.

His parents struggled to make ends meet, to feed and clothe and teach the family.

Then, when it became too much, his mother struggled alone to keep them all afloat. It wasn't enough, so he took to the streets. He stole and fought with the desperation only those the impoverished have - a constant hunger and worry that there will never be enough; hands constantly grasping for more, body always tense and ready to defend what little was scavenged.

His mother never asked how he was able to help out, but the look in her eyes carried shame and pride and regret. It felt like falling into the abyss, and left their interactions hollow.

She knew and never asked him to stop -- could never ask him to stop.

Days and nights were woven together with that hunger and fear. They left a bitter taste in his mouth that spread to his stomach and crawled up to his ribs, weaving through them and around them - acting as both protection, but also leaving him barely able to breathe.

The military was more of the same, but with different rules and different people. Struggling got him farther than it ever could have on the streets. (Again, his mother knew, and said nothing. There was less shame in her eyes, but the regret had a depth he couldn't understand. It followed him, haunted him when he could not sleep.)

For a time,  the hunger lessened its grip, but always stayed in his periphery. It would whisper in his ears from time to time, making sure he never forgot that it was there.

And then the invitation to Overwatch came, and that hunger roared to life, so loud he could barely hear anything else. The world was struggling, and he, who intimately knew suffering and difficulty, could lead that fight. He could latch onto victory, and rein it in. Mold it from loose threads and weave it into something tangible. Something he could finally be proud of, without shame and regret, that would finally fill the abyss.

But for all his struggling, everything he wanted to do came easier to Jack Morrison.

The bitter taste in his mouth was never stronger than then. All the work he would put in - all of the strategizing, muck scraping, sleepless nights, and gritty, ugly days would somehow be cleansed and elevated by Jack.

If his work was wool, then Jack was the spindle that turned it into thread, and he was the foolish shepard that dreamt of being a king.

\--

He was tired of struggling.

He had been struggling for so long, and so hard, that even death could not keep him. Every cell of his body screamed and fought and lived and died and lived and died.

(He could still feel his mother's look of shameprideregret, and it seeped through his skin, into whatever was left of his soul.)

But the hunger was the worst of all. If before it drove him, now it consumed him, pushed him, warped him.

Where before there was an abyss and falling, now there was only an emptiness. He wondered if that was what it was like to be tired.

The hunger beckoned to him, promised him rest, if he would just let go. Let go and hunt, maim, kill, feed. Become the hungerfearshameprideregret that was all that was offered to him, that haunted him. Become more than it.

Between acutely being aware of living and dying and living every second, it was hard to muster caring for why it was wrong.

He knew it was.

But what had struggling and trying to do the right thing gotten him so far?

Jack Morrison driving the chariot that pulled the sun, and him stuck between life and death.

So he let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thanks for reading, and feel free to drop a line here or hit me up on tumblr at [bone-orchestra](http://bone-orchestra.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> There may be more to come. It's 1am where I'm at, and I'm not sure.


	2. ROUND 2 - ANGST

He knows he's as prickly as a cactus fruit - it looks smooth until you wrap your hand around it and come away with hundreds of tiny needles, almost impossible to remove.   
  
He's sure he's more thorn than cactus, with the desert of his life leaving him with little sweetness.   
  
There are no rains to rejuvenate him and let him bloom into something more, something softer. And he doesn't care anymore.   
  
He has spent a lifetime having to walk on eggshells, knowing that by nature he is blunt, and by circumstance, having to be quiet, restrained, polite, lest it cost him dearly.   
  
In death, he will have his pettiness.

 

So he crushes Winston’s glasses; spews bitter taunts; blamesblames _ blames  _ Mercy for all he is worth (he has never been shown any  _ mercy _ ); he has a lifetime of a variety of wounds and hurts that have been stowed away and a second chance to voice them - he is the acid rain that corrodes and steals and --    
  


Everything that dies by his hand, he envies for the rest he has never gotten.

 

(A tiny part of him is  _ absolutely horrified _ at everything he’s done as Reaper and that blip of morality is quickly smothered by a wave of hunger that drowns Gabriel - shhh _ hhhhh, it’s ok. Think of everything you’re owed, reap it from their skin, drink it from their souls.  _

  
The farther he goes, the less redeemable he feels.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why inspiration for this fic always hits after midnight.
> 
> Also, I learned that the tiny, prickly bastard needles on cacti are called [glochids](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glochid).


End file.
